University of Virginia Library

8. CHAPTER VIII.
THE NOVICE.

The silence that followed the disappearance of
the religieuse Ursule on her penitential mission
was passed by the young confessor in brief reflections
upon the nature and tendency of his present
employment. No sophistry with which he fortified
himself, through questioning the genuineness of the
Roman faith and ridiculing the act of confession,
could aid him in silencing certain severe mental
strictures upon the part he was acting in the sacred
relation of a guest, and under a guise to which he
was indebted for his safety and the hospitality he
was abusing. Neither of these could deter him
from prosecuting an amour, if a wayward impulse,
having, perhaps, no definite aim or other purpose
than the indulgence of a romantic temperament,
could with strictness be so denominated.

“I am aware,” he said, “that I am playing a
part both dangerous and censurable, and which my
conscience refuses to defend; but I have gone too

far to recede, and my object is certainly innocent.
If the scales are to be so nicely adjusted, I think
the penances I have enjoined and the sins I have
remitted in my assumed character will swing
evenly, so far as Doomsday may decide, with those
granted on confession by worthy Brother Bonaventure.
But,” he continued, in a gay tone, “to
quote one of the good father's proverbs, `He must
needs run whom the devil drives.”'

He thus put a period to his scruples by a coup
de main in the shape of a proverb, whose truth
certainly does not admit of question, but under
whose shelter more mischief has been wrought
than his infernal highness, if so disposed, could repair.

“Now aid me, Cupid and shade of Walter de
Lancy!” he added, as he heard a rustling behind
the arras.

The next moment a graceful female figure,
closely veiled, entered the chapel; and with less
scrupulous observance of the forms which characterized
the entrance of pious Sister Ursule, she advanced
with an easy, undulating motion, and kneeled
before the lattice of the confessional.

“Daughter,” said the confessor, after a brief silence,
during which only the gentle suspirations of
the penitent were heard, while her young bosom
heaved like the breast of a wild pigeon in the
hands of the fowler, “daughter, thou art come to
confession, I trust, with a heart suitably prepared
to receive absolution; for I am informed thy indiscretions,
to give them no harsher term, have
been many and aggravated. But, if thou hast duly
repented, I will give thee absolution, on confession,
for all thy offences up to this time; for I do not desire
to be rigorous with youth. Thou mayst confess,
beginning with the hour of matins. But first

put aside thy veil, daughter, that I may see if thy
looks show thee to be sufficiently penitent.”

The novice, from the mysterious yet elated manner
of Sister Ursule, who could not altogether disguise
her pleasure as she communicated her message,
and from some ominous words dropped
by her, of which she could only distinguish the
sounds `Norman knight,' had anticipated from the
father confessor a severe rebuke and onerous penance.
But when she heard the unusually mild tones
of his voice, which the monk had now learned to
disguise still more by placing his lips to one of
the numerous apertures of the lattice as if to the
mouth of a tube, she experienced infinite relief,
and, drawing aside her veil, prepared with cheerfulness
and confidence to make her confession.

The removal of her veil, which is seldom worn
at confession, exposed to the gaze of the young confessor,
as he surveyed them through the interstices
of the confessional blinds, the features of a strikingly
beautiful girl, not more than sixteen years of
age. Her hair was of the richest shade of auburn,
and, escaping from the confinement of the virgin
fillet that bound it, flowed in golden luxuriance
over her faultless neck and finely-turned shoulders,
the exquisite shape of which was eminently
displayed by the dark-coloured and closely-fitting
habit that she wore. Meeting close at the
throat, where it was secured by a jet-clasp, it descended
to her waist, exhibiting its fine proportions
and perfect symmetry to much greater advantage
than worthy Sister Ursule, or, perhaps, the inventors
of this religious costume would have approved,
had their carefulness in departing from the sin-alluring
garments of the world partaken more of
worldly wisdom. The dark colour of her attire
gave, also, additional lustre to a complexion remarkably

clear and brilliant. This was especially
exemplified in the contrast between the sombre
hue of her habit and a pair of snowy hands, soft
and childlike in appearance (the taper fingers nevertheless
showing those graceful proportions indicating
the maturer maiden) which, protruding from
the closely-cut sleeve, were demurely crossed on
her bosom. Her eyes, at first, were meekly cast
down, as became the circumstances and attitude of
the penitent, offering to the gaze of the admiring
soldier dark lashes, like silken fringes, shading and
quite concealing the orbs beneath. But when,
embarrassed by the silence preserved by her confessor,
who, forgetful of his situation, drank in with
his eyes her unconscious beauty, she timidly raised
them to the lattice, they beamed with intelligence
and a sweetness of expression just sufficiently
mingled with passion, or, to speak with greater
truth, love, to be irresistibly fascinating. They
were of that peculiar shade of brown often united
with auburn hair, closely allied to black, and commonly
designated as such, but which is more nearly
assimilated to the rich hue of the chestnut. They
were full of lambent fire, and ready to kindle into
flame or overflow with tenderness as the changing
impulses of her soul played in their dark and dangerous
depths. Her beauty was of an Oriental
cast: her face oval; her forehead low, but pleasing,
and falling into a nose of classic beauty. Her
mouth was small and more exquisitely formed, and
infinitely more fatal than Cupid's bow, who, it is
fabled, stole from beauty's lips its graceful shape.

An air of demure submission pervaded her whole
manner, the existence of which was denied, however,
by an arch expression playing about the corners
of her mouth, and a piquant glance that her
drooping eyelids could not altogether conceal.

Her beauty was the more striking from the absence
of affectation, as, unconscious of observation,
or, at least, of exciting admiration, she kneeled
artlessly before the confessional, oblivious of those
little airs which, if she had known who gazed upon
her, she might have called to her aid, but to diminish
rather than increase the charm created by her ingenuous
loveliness.

The young confessor, in the ardour of his admiration,
had wellnigh forgotten his assumed character;
and, yielding to the impulse of youthful passion,
was about to rush from the confessional to
cast himself at her feet, when the peculiar harp-tones
of her voice, which had so thrilled upon his
senses when he first heard them in scarcely audible
prayer, recalled him to the duties, now, at least,
sufficiently agreeable, of his usurped station.

Raising her eloquent eyes, she said, sweetly and
persuasively, “Father, I hope your silence is not
from anger that I said what I did about the Norman
knight, for I know that envious nun Ursule
has told you of it.”

“No, my daughter,” replied the confessor, with
difficulty addressing youth and beauty in the gruff
tones of Father Bonaventure, at the same time impatient
to throw off his disguise and appear before
her with all the advantages of youthful eloquence
and fascinating address, graces which few possessed
in a more eminent degree, and of whose
power over the female heart no one was more conscious.
“No, Eugenie, I am not offended. But,
as thou hast voluntarily renounced the world and
its vanities, thou shouldst think of no other bridegroom
than the church, to which thou art betrothed.”

“No, no, I have not voluntarily renounced the
world, father,” she replied, with some warmth, her
dark eye lighting up with animation; “although I

love the church, I do not love it enough to relinquish
all the enjoyments of life for it. May not heaven
be won without such sacrifice? I would rather
try my chance with others, to whom the green
earth is as free as to the forest deer, than be
mewed up here all my life, till I come to be such
a withered spectre as nun Ursule, who, I verily
believe, would forfeit her soul's salvation if she
could see me this day the counterpart to herself.”

This was said with feminine spirit and the pouting
lip of a spoiled child.

“Then why art thou here, daughter, if against
thy will?” asked the monk, becoming interested in
the fate of the lovely penitent.

“Because,” she replied, with feeling, “the will
of others was stronger than mine. I have been
here four months to-morrow, father; but, before I
remain eight more, and then take the veil, I will
make my escape. I never knew,” she continued,
with emotion, “how to compassionate poor imprisoned
birds till now. I remember reading in
one of my English books how a poor starling shut
up in a cage continually cried, `I can't get out!
I can't get out!' I know how to feel for the poor
starling now, father!”

She spoke these words with a natural and touching
eloquence that affected the young soldier, while
the heavy drooping lid and increased lustre of her
eyes betrayed the depth of her own emotion.

“And who forced thee, my child, to embrace a
life for which thou hadst no inclination?” inquired
the monk, with additional interest in the fate of the
lovely novice.

“My guardian and uncle, the Vicomte St. Clair,”
she answered, with an indignant flash of her eyes
and a scornful curl of her beautiful upper lip;
“but I thought you knew this, father?”

“Yes, Eugenie, true; but I had forgotten.
Where now is thy uncle the vicomte?”

“Gone from Quebec to France, to take possession
of my grandfather's estate, which should have
been my own inheritance through my father, who
was the eldest son.”

“And he has placed thee in this convent, that,
through thy taking the veil, he may usurp thy
right?”

“He has, father. He urged, remonstrated, and
threatened, and I had no other alternative than to
yield to his tyranny. He was my guardian on the
death of my father, Colonel de Lisle, who fell by
the side of the noble Marquis de Montcalm in the
attack on Quebec. The fatal tidings were conveyed
to my mother, then at Montmorenci. She
survived him but a few weeks, leaving me an infant.
The Vicomte St. Clair, whom my mother
had appointed my guardian, consigned me to the
care of a Madame Montmorin. She was the widow
of a distinguished officer, and a friend of my mother.
I resided with her until my uncle, who had been
living upon my father's property in France, tempted
by his cupidity and his fears of soon being dispossessed
(as I was nearly of the legal age to enter
upon the possession), resolved to deprive me of it.
He arrived at Quebec in May last, and, by entreaties,
promises, and threats, induced me to consent
to enter, as a novice, the Hôtel Dieu.

“After six weeks' residence there I found means
to escape; when the Vicomte St. Clair, who still
remained in Quebec, learning that I had returned
to the house of Madame Montmorin, came for me.
Deceived by his artful language, this lady permitted
me to be taken away by my uncle, who conveyed
me here, bidding, in my hearing, the superior
to guard me as if I were a state's prisoner. It

is thus, father, I came to be an involuntary inmate
of a convent. But,” she added, firmly, “I will not
remain here; even the assumption of the veil itself
should not prevent my improving the first opportunity
of escape.”

Her narrative was given with a degree of animation
that heightened the beauty of her features, and
communicated to them the additional attribute of
moral sublimity. During the recital her eyes lighted
up with varied impulses: filial pride, while she
spoke of her father's soldierly death; resentment,
when she alluded to her wrongs; affection, when
she spoke of her friends, like the changing features
of an April sky reflected in a lake, were mirrored
in them.

As the young soldier listened to a theme well
calculated, coming from such lips, to awaken the
chivalrous spirit in a youthful breast, he was
scarcely able to moderate his indignation or refrain
from at once declaring himself the champion
of her wrongs. But while he mentally resolved,
with the prompt decision of a romantic youth, to
become her sworn knight in this cause, and deliver
her from an oppression which both his education
and sense of justice declared to be illegal and criminal,
his heart at the same time entering a protest
against it of at least equal strength, he decided to
prepare the way with caution and safety both to
himself and the interesting object of his sympathy.
The confession of the nun Ursule had furnished
him with a clew, by which he determined to be
guided in his contemplated enterprise.

“Daughter Eugenie,” he said, addressing her as
she kneeled before him with a heaving bosom and
a cheek still glowing with excited feelings, “my
heart shares with thee thy unhappy destiny. Thou
hast been speaking to Sister Ursule of Walter de

Lancy, and instituting some comparison between
him and Father Bonaven—, that is to say, myself.”

“Nay, father,” she said, an arch smile mantling
her lips as she spoke, “but you have already given
me absolution for this; but, father, is not your voice
strangely altered this morning?”

“It's the cold and snow; the snow, daughter,”
replied the confessor, in a voice which Father Bonaventure
himself would have mistaken for his own;
“but I would speak to thee of this Norman knight.
Thou sayst that, in the guise of a confessor, he entered
the convent and shrived the inmates?”

“Yes, reverend father,” she replied, hesitatingly,
“it was in Normandy; and a brave knight,
and one worthy a maiden's love he was. But that
was in the days of romance, father,” she added,
with a gentle sigh; “such things are not now known
except in olden tales.”

“Perhaps not, Eugenie,” said the young soldier;
“but what now wouldst thou give if I, thy father
confessor, were to prove a knight, not so gallant
and comely, perhaps, as thy Norman De Lancy,
but young, and brave, and willing to go the death to
free thee from thy imprisonment?”

“You a brave and gallant knight, Father Bonaventure!”
repeated the novice, laughing.

“Even so, novice; what wouldst thou give?”

“I would give you, if you were as you say,”
replied the maiden, with a smile that doubtless
would have captivated the heart of Father Bonaventure
if he had been in the place of his dangerous
guest, while her face beamed as if there had
been liberty in the thought, “what the novice, for
whose love this brave knight disguised himself,
gave to him—heart and hand! what more could
maiden give?”

“Eugenie,” said the young soldier, in his natural

tones, but modulated to the gentlest and most
persuasive accents, “be not alarmed at my voice.
Retain, I beseech you, your presence of mind! I
am neither Father Bonaventure nor a confessor,
but a young soldier, your Norman knight if you
will, who will place you free as the wild roe beneath
the blue heavens, with his life's purchase and
within the hour, if you will trust to his loyalty and
honour.”

As he spoke he opened the door of the confessional
and stood before her. At his appearance
she shrunk back with the extremity of alarm visible
on her countenance. Gracefully and tenderly
taking her passive hand, he threw back his cowl,
and exposed youthful and handsome features instead
of those of Father Bonaventure; and those same
dark eyes, whose passionate fire had already lighted
a flame in her heart, again met her own.

“Be not alarmed, fair Eugenie,” he said to the
bewildered novice, who scarcely knew whether she
was awake or dreaming, at so sudden a realization
of her romantic wishes; “deign to accept me as
your Norman knight, and I will free you from this
dreary prison.”

“What guarantee have I of your good faith,
Sir Cavalier?” she asked, recovering her presence
of mind, and archly smiling as she withdrew her
hand from that of the young soldier.

“In proof of my sincerity, lovely girl,” said the
youth, smiling in his turn, and speaking in a tone
that carried confidence to her bosom, “I am about
to confide to you my safety, and, perhaps, my life.”

Thus speaking, he advanced to and carefully
secured both entrances of the chapel, and then returning
to her, cast aside his disguise, and, to the
increased surprise of the astonished maiden, appeared

before her in the gay and gallant costume
of a colonial officer of rank.

“Now, Eugenie,” he said, placing his foot with
something like contempt upon the monk's cassock
which he had cast on the ground, “you see me in
my true character, as a soldier in the army of the
colonies which are in arms against the oppression
of the mother country. I have adopted this disguise
that I may travel without interruption to
Quebec, whither I am sent on a mission of importance
by the commanding officer of a division of
the colonial army now on its march into Canada.
The Father Bonaventure only knows me as a
brother priest. I am to take my departure within
an hour to pursue my journey. If you will confide
in me, by my honour as a soldier and a gentleman,
I will aid your escape from the convent if I have
to lead you forth in the face of the whole sisterhood,
the Father Bonaventure, and nun Ursule to
boot,” he added, smiling. “Fly with me, dearest
Eugenie,” he persisted, in a voice modulated by
love to accents of inexpressible sweetness, and with
a fascination of look and manner that was irresistible;
“I feel that from this moment our destinies
are inseparably linked. Speak, lovely one! Say
that you will trust to my honour, as a sister would
confide in a brother. I will be to you as a brother,
and sacred as a sister will I regard you, until I
place you under the roof of some friend in Quebec,
or wherever you wish to find an asylum. Not one
word from those lovely lips, not one look from
those soft eyes, to tell me that I do not plead in
vain?”

As the tender vine, when cast loose by the tempest
from its support, at length reaches and clings
around some noble trunk towards which its tendrils
have been long stretched forth; as the dove, when

pursued by the trained hawk, seeks shelter in the
bosom of the falconer, so did the persecuted and
friendless novice commit her destiny to the honour
and chivalry of the handsome young soldier who
suppliantly kneeled at her feet, and passionately
urged his romantic suit. Just as she had yielded,
with downcast eyes, stern loud voices without the
convent, as if demanding admittance, accompanied
by vehement knocking on the door, startled them
both.

The lover hastily rose to his feet, and their eyes
eloquently met. By a sort of freemasonry said to
exist among lovers, more was conveyed by the
magical interchange of their glances than the
tongues of either could have uttered. The next
moment, as if actuated by one impulse, they drew
near each other, and in an instant the arms of the
daring youth were encircling the yielding form of
the blushing novice, and his bold lips pressed her
own. With her virgin cheeks burning with shame
and with heightened beauty, she bounded away
from him and fled from the oratory.

He hastily resumed his disguise, and with his
bosom swelling with the pride of recent conquest,
and his dark eyes flashing with the triumph of a
successful wooer, he hastened to ascertain the
cause of the noise without. As he advanced
through the gallery it increased in violence, as if
the applicants held in slight veneration the sacred
character of the convent, or were influenced by
circumstances to whose urgency the shelter of a
convent or hostel were alike welcome.